Ruth leaned forward. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of her daughter’s shampooed hair. She nodded, and Sofie began to sob. She sobbed hard, as hard as her mother had—almost as if the loss of the dog had given her permission to mourn the loss of her father, too—but then she sat on her mother’s lap, with Elam beside her, and stroked the puppy’s head. Once her crying had quieted, Sofie looked up at Elam. “Can I name him?”
Elam smiled and murmured, “Yes, Sofie. Anything you want.”
“Everest,” she said, tears still glistening on her round cheeks. “From Paw Patrol.”
As Ruth’s eyes filled, she thought, This is a start.
CHAPTER 12
ELAM AND RUTH WERE MARRIED IN THE BARN. Young Bishop Gish oversaw the ceremony, and he was as somber conducting the wedding as he had been conducting the funeral. Ruth wondered how hard it was for Elam to talk the bishop into officiating the service. The past ten years had served to decelerate his forward thinking, and therefore he probably frowned on the fact Ruth did not intend to join the Mennonite church. Still, Young Bishop Gish got the job done. Ruth carried no flowers but wore a creamy satin dress with a chapel-length train. Laurie had sewn it and accented the cinched bodice with a fleur-de-lis pattern, each swirl outlined with delicate crystal beads. So much time and effort had clearly been invested in that dress, Ruth suspected Laurie had created it from the vision of the one she’d never been allowed to wear.
Laurie stood beside Ruth, and Tim stood beside Elam. For the children’s sake, and hers, Ruth had requested that the ceremony be immediate family only. Sofie and Vi were wearing matching dresses Laurie had made from the material left over from Ruth’s.
Mabel sat between her granddaughters and kept one soft, warm arm on either side of their shoulders, so it was impossible to tell if Mabel was receiving comfort or giving it.
Ruth met Mabel’s eye before Bishop Gish declared her and Elam husband and wife. The entire ceremony had been conducted in English, out of deference to the Englisch bride, but the bishop read 1 Corinthians 13 from his German Bible. Ruth mentally translated as he read, recalling the day she’d married Chandler, and how they’d gripped each other’s hands as they’d said their vows: for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health . . . till death do us part. Death had finally parted them, but looking back, it seemed this parting had been inessential.
Each time Chandler chose to care for orphans over his family; each time Ruth snapped at him the second he came in the door; each time they got the girls to bed and reached for their smartphones instead of each other; each time they failed each other and were, in turn, failed, caused a division neither attempted to bridge. Tears stung Ruth’s eyes as she looked at Mabel, her mother-in-law, who would soon be her mother-in-law no more but her husband’s aunt.
Mabel mustered up a smile, which Ruth bravely returned. They would forever be joined by their loss and their love. This knowledge brought Ruth immeasurable comfort.
Ruth looked at Elam again. She sensed he’d been watching her the entire time, during which her mind had been lost in the forest of memory. She smiled, contrite, and squeezed his large, square hand. As Elam began saying the vows she’d first said six years ago, Ruth found herself recalling the letter she’d written her deceased husband the previous night:
Dear Chandler,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I failed you, and you failed me, and we didn’t take time for each other. I’m sorry we lost each other in parenthood and in the monotony of life, a monotony which was found even on the mission field. I would do better, if I could do it all again. I would be more patient, more kind; I would understand your needs and pray that, through that understanding, you would then try to understand mine. We failed each other; we did. But I don’t want to fail now. I don’t want to fail this beautiful, good man, who is willing to love our broken family, even though not every part of us is entirely on the mend.
Young Bishop Gish did not tell them to kiss when they became husband and wife; no one in the audience clapped or cheered and no music played. But Elam held Ruth’s hand as they walked out of the barn, and Ruth could see the sunlight beyond it etching the lines of the old plank wood. She remembered her high school art teacher’s favorite quote. It was from a Leonard Cohen song, “Anthem.” There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
Elam sat stiffly in the passenger seat and picked at the left cuff of his shirt. In thirty miles, he’d made no move to touch his wife; in thirty miles, he’d not even made an effort to talk. Ruth’s Claddagh ring, on the steering wheel, flashed as she turned on the radio to fill up the silence. She sorted through the station controls with her thumb, surprised to find they were playing the same songs they’d been playing when she drove another budget rental from Illinois to Wisconsin. A lifetime ago. She glanced over at Elam. Did the radio offend him? How had they never discussed this? She punched it off, just to be safe.
This honeymoon felt nothing like the one Ruth had taken with Chandler. With Chandler, she was still wearing her wedding dress when they left the orphanage in the battered two-door they’d borrowed. Ruth had rested her aching feet on the dashboard so that, in the morning, they could see the print of her ten bare toes against the windshield’s bug-splattered glass. Chandler had driven with his left hand while keeping his right on her upper thigh. The young couple was filled with the kind of naive anticipation that time all too quickly cures. It was as though their entire adventurous life was unfurled before them, bordered by twin headlights.
The silence, now, had less to do with anticipation and more to do with fear. Ruth’s hands began to sweat on the steering wheel. She looked over at Elam. Had she imagined the moments they’d shared? Had she imaged the desire in his eyes or the comfort of his foot touching hers while the rest of the family obliviously consumed a home-cooked meal around the table?
Well, first things first. She cleared her throat. “Mind if I play some music?”
Elam smiled. “Not at all.”
She pushed the radio back on and settled on a classical station, which seemed like the one Elam would most enjoy, considering his love for the piano. How had she married someone whose musical preferences were a mystery to her? Panic clamped her throat.
“Door County should be quiet this time of year,” Elam said, and then added, with uncommon redundancy for a man who said so few words, “There shouldn’t be any crowds.”
Ruth said, “Thank you for arranging everything.”
“My honor,” he replied. “I just hope . . . you like it.”
She heard the small hitch in his voice and understood what she should have already known: This was Elam’s first honeymoon, but it wasn’t hers. This was his first wedding, but it wasn’t hers. This would be a first for him in so many ways, and no doubt he was experiencing more anxiety than eagerness as she drove but he tried to navigate how to please her.
Ruth relaxed her grip on the steering wheel and surreptitiously wiped her right hand on her jeans before reaching for his left. “I’m looking forward to having time together.”
He clasped her fingers. “I am . . . too.” They didn’t say anything for a while. Just when she was about to pull her hand away, Elam said, “I want you to know that I am seeing this trip as our chance to get to know each other better. Nothing more . . . nothing less.”
Ruth nodded. “I guess we haven’t gotten to know each other very well yet, have we?”
“Well, in the context of a husband and wife leaving on their . . . honeymoon? No.”
“Were we crazy to do this? To get married so soon?”
Elam laughed. A short, relieved sound. “Probably,” he said. “But I’m glad we did.”
A denouement of snow began to fall, suspended in the high beams. The atmosphere in the car began to change as well. “I’m glad we did too,” Ruth said. “Life’s too short otherwise.”
Elam kissed the inside of her wrist. “I just hope we’ve got all the time in the world.”
It was after midnight when they drove up to the cottage, nestled between pine trees and an apple orchard on the far side of an old farm. Ruth got out of the car and stretched, staring up at the sky. The snow had stopped as abruptly as it had started, and the heavens were jet black and scattered with stars. Lake Michigan bordered the acreage, and yet the January wind—sweeping across the water—seemed to carry with it the scent of brine. The air was colder than Ruth expected. She hunkered inside the wool sweater she had packed, at the last minute, for the trip. The car’s automatic headlights were still on, and Ruth could see the cottage was composed of dark-gray shake siding, trimmed in white. Flower boxes and a wraparound porch adorned the front. The narrow window beside the main door was stained glass. The door was painted teal and had a tarnished brass knocker in the shape of a butterfly. Ruth walked toward this door, taking in the numerous bird feeders in the front yard, dangling from shepherd hooks, and the remnants of perennials that would not resurrect themselves until spring.
Behind her, Elam opened the trunk of the car and took out their bags. Ruth had packed the carry-on she had brought with her on the flight from London to New York and then Chicago. Watching Elam carry it up to the house now, along with a small duffel, made her marvel at the unpredictable nature of life. When she was riding in that small red car with Chandler, she could’ve never anticipated that, six years later, he’d be dead, and she’d be about to embark on another honeymoon with his first cousin—a man who was a stranger to her half a year ago, and who was, in many ways, a stranger to her still.
And yet, wasn’t the unpredictable nature of life what made her cherish it? Without that unpredictability, would she have taken the risk of marrying Elam? Without it, would she hug her daughters so fiercely throughout the day, as if holding them could prevent them from being able to leave the sphere of the earth as their father had? Ruth didn’t know. The older she became, the more she realized how little she did know.
But as she walked up to Elam, he looked over and smiled, and the swirling thoughts pervading her mind grew calm. She was safe here, with him. She was, perhaps, not as safe as she could have been if she’d protected herself from pain by refusing to embrace love. But a life well lived wasn’t meant for safety; a life well lived meant flinging your heart into the void.
“Ready?” Elam asked. Ruth looked up at him and nodded. Rather than carrying her across the threshold, as Chandler had done in their stone house in the mountains of Colombia, Elam simply set their bags down by the door, unlocked it, and reached for her hand.
Ruth entered the cottage in front of Elam. He stepped in behind her, but neither of them turned on the lights. The ceiling was low, the space small, so the bedroom was visible even from the front door. Ruth walked across the living room and ran her hand over the top of the mantel, constructed from a barn beam, so she could feel the notches and the stippled worm holes the years had honed. The owners of the cottage had laid wood for a fire. Elam stepped up beside Ruth to find the matchbox. The fire helped, providing Elam and Ruth with a focal point that wasn’t each other. They stood before it for some time, listening to the kindling slowly crackle and burn. Otherwise, the cottage was silent. No children fussed. No puppy whined. No dishes clanged as Mabel made supper. Their ears were tuned to the soundtrack of their breathing. Finally, Elam turned to Ruth. She sensed rather than saw this, and she turned to him as well. He placed his hands on her shoulders and ran them down her arms. “My wife,” he said.
Ruth shivered, a reflex of body temperature or a premonition, she did not know which. “I am,” she said, trying to match his smile. Elam moved his hands back up and rested them on her neck. Her voice was steady, controlled, but the pulse at her throat would give her away.
“I won’t . . . hurt you,” he said.
“I know that,” Ruth admitted. She reached up and wrapped her hands around his. “I’m more afraid of hurting you.”
Elam smiled and wiped a thumb against her wet cheek. “Vulnerability’s always a risk,” he said. “But I’d rather . . . take it, wouldn’t you?”
She nodded, and he pulled the sweater from her shoulders. It fell to the floor as Elam’s fingers whispered against her collarbone. Ruth’s body replied, though she spoke not a word. Elam leaned his head down and kissed her, long and deep, before scooping his bride into his arms and carrying her across the cool cottage floor to their bed.
Dear Ruth,
I found a notebook and a pen in the bombed apartment complex where I’ve been staying. That wasn’t all I found. There were cans of food buried in the rubble, which I opened with a knife I discovered in the drawer next to the stove. But even though I was starving, that notebook and pen excited me more than the food. Or at least they were just as exciting. Because I wanted to do this: sit here, in the middle of such madness, and write to you. I miss the sound of your voice. The “We need to talk” voice, which means I’m in trouble; the higher-pitched voice you use when being goofy with the girls. You have another voice you use for them too, which reminds me of a growl, and whenever I hear this, I know it’s high time to kick into gear and help you. But the voice I miss most is the one you save for the two of us, when it’s late at night, the kids are asleep, and we are in bed—the streetlights coming through the window the only light in the room.
Many times, I would look over and watch you as you talked about the children or about your day. I knew you were lonely. I could hear that, too, in your voice as you talked, but I didn’t know how to fix it, and because I didn’t know how to fix it, I often didn’t let myself truly hear you, because hearing you and not being able to fix what was broken meant I had failed.
I regret this so much. I want you to know this. If I could do it all over, which I pray I have the chance to do, whenever you and I are next lying beside each other (such a dream to me, and to think how I used to collapse, unthinkingly, into bed!), I will not nod off—my back to you—while you are sharing your heart. Rather, I want to stay awake all night long, just listening to the rhythm of your voice, but this time, I will really listen to your words, and I will hear them, and I won’t try to fix anything but simply let you talk to me. I would do so many things differently if I had the chance, Ruth. I hope it’s a chance I get. I hope it’s not too late. That I won’t die here in a place that was once my refuge from monotony and has now become my living hell, and instead I will get to live with you and our darling girls, and I really think I will never want to go anywhere ever again. So speak to me, my darling Ruth. Help me find my way back home.
I love you,
Chandler
Elam opened his eyes to a strange ceiling above him. It neither sloped like his room beside the kitchen, nor was it exposed like the ceiling in his cabin in the woods. Rather, it was composed of thick pine board, stained with a cream wash, so that most of the circular knots still showed through. As Elam stared, the memories came back, of what he was doing in this cottage, and who was here with him. He turned his eyes from the ceiling and glanced over in the bed. He saw Ruth there: the strap of her slip had fallen down onto one shoulder. Her hair—more red than gold in this light—tumbled down her freckled back. Elam felt shy this morning, though he’d felt far from it last night. His face burned to recall how he had touched her, as if her body were an extension of his. But he guessed, in a way, it was.
Elam pulled on his pants, built a fire, and then opened the front door to a transformed world. A foot of snow had fallen overnight, the top inch layered with the same ice that coated each bare branch of the straggled apple trees surrounding the cottage. The newlyweds had been so intent on each other, they hadn’t noticed the shift taking place outside. Wisconsin’s midwinter snowfalls had always been Elam’s favorite. As a child, he’d liked to imagine the unglaciered land protected by that pristine blanket until the ground thawed and spring came again.
Elam was older now and understood that sometimes the bout of ice and cold extinguished life rather than protected it. But standing on that porch with his boots un
tied and his winter coat unbuttoned over his bare chest, he was filled with the same excitement as when he was a young boy with an entire day before him of sledding, hot chocolate, and endless rounds of Dutch Blitz. Elam tromped out into the snow and pulled the crate of dry goods from the back of the car. If not for Mabel, who knows what Elam and Ruth would have eaten during their first morning as husband and wife. Elam carried the food back inside and heard the shower running.
He turned when he heard Ruth sing. The bathroom door was open and steam poured through the gap. He wasn’t sure how long it’d take him to become accustomed to the fact he could indeed look at his bride, but then he thought it was better not to become accustomed, but to constantly view their union as some miraculous occurrence that didn’t happen twice.
Elam was making pancakes when Ruth came out from her shower, wearing a robe he hadn’t seen. He wasn’t sure how he should approach her, wasn’t sure if the intimacy they’d experienced last night also existed this morning. Maybe she needed space? Elam smiled at Ruth but didn’t say anything. She walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist, burrowing her face into the curve of his back. Elam’s family was not the demonstrative type. This was partly due to their heritage, and partly because Elam’s mom was unsure if the same affection should be bestowed to boys as well as girls. So this sudden physical touch surprised and pleased him.
“Good morning.”
Elam felt Ruth’s simple greeting, which they’d exchanged so many times, reverberate through his spine. He loved this woman. He loved this woman so much, it made him fearful, because he knew how it felt to love someone and then lose them to events beyond your control. But he would rather live with risk than live without her.
Elam turned with the flipper in hand and opened his arms to Ruth. She stepped closer and nestled against him. “Did you sleep all right?” he asked.
How the Light Gets In Page 17